Part Six: The Morning After That
It was a Tuesday, three months later, when I finally wore the dress again.
Not for a special occasion — no particular anniversary or triumph to mark. I wore it because the morning was good and the light was right and the dress was repaired and hanging in my closet and there was no longer any reason not to.
I made coffee in my kitchen. I stood at the window and looked at the garden, which was going into its autumn transition — the roses finished, the hydrangeas fading, the Japanese maple beginning the slow private drama of its seasonal color change. I had planted that maple myself, seven years ago, before I even met Daniel, in a season of my life when I was learning to care for things with patience because I had finally stopped rushing toward the future and started living in the present tense.
My phone was on the table. Caroline had texted to reschedule the lunch we’d never managed to have. I wrote back: Yes. This week. Name the day.
I finished my coffee. I rinsed the cup. I picked up my keys.
The lock worked perfectly as I left, and perfectly when I returned, and perfectly every day after that. Locks are reliable things, when you are the only one who holds the key.
